But Alistair, his scarred face beginning to relearn what it had once known, smiled. “Long life to you, King Florien,” he said. “May you rule with mercy and justice, and your heirs after you.”
The king opened his mouth to speak, but nothing that seemed right to him would come. So instead, he said only, “Farewell, cousin.”
The library was quiet in the wake of Alistair’s departure. The chronicler who was king sat awhile upon his high stool, staring around at the stone walls, trying not to think, for any thought might be too overwhelming.
“I am weak,” he whispered. “Too weak for this.”
And in you, my might will be made visible to all people.
“Give me the strength, then,” said the Smallman. “Give me the strength and the wisdom I need.”
A knock at the door. Sighing, the Chronicler slid off the stool and opened it. One of his guards stood there. Beyond him stood Leta.
“Your Majesty, this young woman insists you would wish to see her,” said the guard tentatively, for he was uncertain of required protocol when it came to kings. “She says you need her to put the library back together,” he added, glancing back at her.
“Oh. Yes,” the Chronicler said, opening the door a little wider. “You did well. Let her pass.”
Relieved, the guard stepped back. Leta entered the library, proceeding to her usual place under the window, though the table had been overturned and broken and all the inkpots scattered. The Chronicler shut the door.
“I can’t imagine how terrible this looks to you,” said Leta, gazing around the chamber. She met the Chronicler’s eyes, and he saw sorrow equal to his own. “All your work.”
“I shall have to transcribe it again. If there’s time,” he said. Then he shrugged ruefully. “Or hire my own chronicler.”
“I thought about that,” said Leta. “I thought maybe . . .” She hesitated, then hurried on. “I thought maybe you’d consider me for the position. I know I’m not very skilled,” she persisted, seeing him open his mouth and, in that moment, not caring that she’d just interrupted a king. “I know I still have much to learn. But I am quite familiar with this library now, and I should like to be part of its restoration. Even if you can’t commission me as official chronicler, I hope you will allow me to help. . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and he thought perhaps there were tears in her eyes, for she no longer was willing to meet his gaze. He sighed and bent to pick up several loose sheets lying at his feet. They were torn as though by great claws. He pretended to read them but for some reason couldn’t discern the words.
“I think,” he said, “it might be best if you returned to Aiven. To the home of your father.”
“You’d send me away?” Her voice was sharp.
He bowed his head and shuffled the papers. “There’s no place at Gaheris now for an unwed maiden.”
He felt the power of her stare full upon him, and he dared not meet it.
“What did you say to me?” Leta asked.
His throat was too dry to swallow. “I simply don’t think it would be wise, my lady.”
She did not speak for a long moment. She felt rebellious Leta rising in full force and fury, ready, after all the dreadfulness of the last week, to explode.
But practical Leta reminded her, Do be reasonable. A little reason never hurt anything.
“Very well, Your Majesty,” Leta said, her voice as prim as any lady of the court’s. “As concerns my return to Aiven, there is a legal question I should bring to your attention.”
“A legal question?”
“Indeed. As you may recall, I am contracted, by the will of Earl Aiven and your late father, to marry the heir to Gaheris.” She waited but could not discern from the side of his face presented to her whether or not he understood. So she added, “Which is you.”
He turned away and marched across the room, pausing to pick up a torn volume and tracing the damage with his finger. “Never fear, my lady,” he said. “I have no intention of holding you to such a contract.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am not unreasonable.” His back was still to her, though his head was up and his shoulders straight. “I would not expect any maiden to hold herself to a legal arrangement intended for another.”
Leta’s eyes narrowed. “Do me the courtesy of plain speaking, Your Majesty.”
He sighed and half turned to her. “I wouldn’t ask you to marry a dwarf.”
Leta couldn’t breathe. Her rebellious side took up all the breath remaining to her, shouting: Tell him! Tell him what you think! Tell him now!
She waited. Practical Leta, after all, should have a chance to whisper reason into the tumult of her mind.
But practical Leta said only: Do it.
“Chronicler . . . Your Majesty . . .” She ground her teeth, eyes squeezed shut. “Florien, do you love me?”